My growth is not punctuated by the normal milestones of childhood - first days of school, graduations, birthdays or Christmas.

Instead the markers are those of domestic violence: me cowering against a wall, protecting my bare back and buttocks as she swings her arm down; the wide leather belt searing across my flesh; her voice counting the lashings ... 31, 32, 33, 34 ...

A fist to the face, my head slamming into a wall.

Standing face against the wall for hours on end, unable to use the toilet or get a drink of water.

Hunched over a cold linoleum floor, scrubbing away the dirt with a toothbrush.

Finger bones crushing as my hand is slammed by a fridge door over stolen biscuits.